Sugar is Sweet, and So Are Your Boobs
by Cut Throat Sweetheart
Summary: House and the team have a new patient that House is...particularly fond of. However, doctor instincts must take over when her mysterious illness starts to progress too fast. Hameron-ish by the end. Set like a real episode. Complete!
1. Cherries and Watermelon

Some of the worst club music ever recorded is blasting from a dozen speakers around this out-of-the-way nightclub but he's too drunk to notice. Everything sounds good when your nervous system is moving at a tenth of the speed it should. He stumbles through a crowd of a million female performers and awkward guys and break dancers and passed out softies who couldn't hold their liquor all the way to the bathroom. He knows where he's going, he thinks, somewhere towards the back where the security guards and occasional cop couldn't see.

The cardboard sign reads, in all sorts of colored marker and bubble letters, "Lollipop Kids. Once you pop, the fun won't stop!" followed by a creepy looking smiley face. A man at least twice his size shields the curtain.

His voice shakes the floor—"How can I help you?"

He raises one eyebrow, and replies, "I think you know. What's the rate?"

"Hundred per girl."

"I'll take two." He hands the guy the cash. "Let's go check um out."

This particular corridor of the club is lit solely by black light, causing every girl's white belly shirt to glow along their curves. They all have different bottoms, their choice. There's young and old, tall and short, skinny and curvy, blondes, brunettes, and redheads galore. He likes what he sees.

Around the corner, two of them share a moment of conversation that was so rare in their line of work.

The blonde one whimpers. "I hate cherry," referring to the mandatory lollipops that are stuck in their mouths.

The brunette whispers in an attempt to quiet her, "I hate them all. They make me gag and they taste awful, especially when your mouth already tastes of vomit."

Blondie giggles. "I like vomitless watermelon myself—"

The infamous pimp and a particularly scraggly man stop in front of them. "Hmm," he ponders, "one's blonde, skinny as hell, and short, and the other's brunette, long, and bootylicious, as they say." Each of them stifles a laugh. "Both of um are nice and young. I'll take um both."

As per cue, they slide their candy between their breasts and move up to him slowly, allowing him to take a lick of each. "This way," the pimp directs.

In the room, lit with a single candle and equipped with a fluffy comforter on a king size bed, they lie on the bed and say the line, "We are at your service, new master."

The blonde continues to stare seductively into his eyes, slowly pulling off her pink mini skirt. The brunette in the black jeans, however, lays still. Barbie nudges the girl, warning, "You wanna get paid or what?"

But she keeps staring, until her arms begin to jerk uncontrollably, followed by her torso and legs.

"Marissa! MARISSA!" The blonde girl is panicking and crying.

"Don't touch her," the man booms. The girl looks up in fright. "She's having a seizure. And I'm a doctor."


	2. Awesome!

In a conference room in Princeton-Plainsboro hospital, four doctors are wasting their time away. Foreman sips coffee, Taub reads a newspaper, and Kutner and Thirteen are locked in a battle of arm wrestling, which, after about a minute of struggle, is won forcefully by the latter.

"You're really awful you know. It's like, you losing to House in the 50 yard dash." She raises her eyebrows with a smirk.

He just shrugs and tries to hide the little bit of pinkness building up in his cheeks.

Suddenly, the aforementioned "runner" walks in appearing hurt—"Aw, Thirteen, you don't think I'm a good runner? The cane can give me surprisingly good leverage.

"Nineteen year old female presents with seizure. Go."

After a moment of silence, Foreman slowly tries: "So—she had a seizure. Feed her something and then send her home. I must say, House, you're down on your game."

"I'm sorry bro. I musta left some stuffs out." Foreman rolls his eyes as he always does when House acts like a racist bastard. "I forgot to mention that she seizes almost every 30 minutes, and she's vomiting. Now doesn't that make it a little more interesting?"

"Epilepsy?" Taub tries.

"No history."

Thirteen: "Drugs?"

"Tox screen is clean."

"Did we get an MRI of the brain?" Kutner asks.

"Not yet. Probably something going on in that pretty little head of hers. Until we get some more information out of this little sickie, that's all we got." House begins to limp out, with an unusual bounce to his step. He peeks back into the room. "Oh yeah, and did I mention that she was my hooker? Awesome!"

Taub and Foreman exchange less than shocked glances, Thirteen heaves a huge sigh, and Kutner grins a little bit.

Meanwhile, down in the ER, Cameron wipes the blood off of her patient's forehead. "Hi, I'm Dr. Cameron," she coos. "You're in the hospital, but we're going to take care of you. Do you remember what happened?" Once scared little Tommy is calm and in a morphine-induced slumber, she approaches the blonde hunky surgeon that's been waiting at the entrance for the past six minutes.

"Hey," she says with an exasperated sigh of relief as they share a quick kiss. "What's going on in the world where not everything belongs up a patient's ass?"

He laughs as she tries to fix her hair as it stands on end. "Not a whole lot of any importance," he replies in his recognizable dialect, "but there's more gossip traveling around the nurses' station today, and it involves House kissing Cuddy the other night."

Cameron suddenly perks up, an unmistakable wave of resentment washing over her. "Oh?"


	3. Wopbopaloobops

The brunette girl is lying in an empty hospital room, with the unfamiliar sounds of her monitor beeping, but otherwise silence. Her long curly hair is up in a ponytail, her crop top and black jeans traded for an ordinary hospital gown. She looks down at her body—"A remnant of my former self." She chuckles a little and plays with her belly button ring like she always does when she's nervous.

A pretty brown haired doctor pulls open the door and stands by the foot of the bed.

"Hello Marissa, I'm Dr. Hadley. One of five doctors working on your case, actually."

She gives a little smirk. "That makes me feel special."

Thirteen, not amused, asks, "Have you been through any trauma lately? Accidents, rape, beatings?" She put a little bit of emphasis on the last word.

"Nope, my life is peachy keen that way. I got it pretty good."

The doctor rolls her eyes and lowers her voice, trying to sound a little kinder. "Then how did you get those scars on your waist?"

The girl sighs, not really wanting to discuss this with this stranger. "Some guys need something to hold onto while they're doing their thing. Scratchers, I call them. Over time, they leave the marks there for good."

"And the black eye?"

"So I screwed up last night. I hate the lollipops he makes us eat. I asked him if I could skip it, and that's what I got. He doesn't mind doing it, it doesn't hurt the business. "

Thirteen looks perplexed. "What does that mean?"

"Lady—sorry—Dr. Hadley, look at me for a second. I have two D cups, a 32 inch waist, and 43 inch hips. I have a belly ring and wear that sack of trash outfit over there. Who the hell do you think is looking at my face when they see me?"

A familiar pattern of movement begins to wash over the poor girl yet again, and Thirteen yells outside quite calmly, "Another 4 mg Ativan."

In the meantime, Taub, Foreman, and Kutner are sitting in the conference room, wondering profusely what the holdup is.

"We were supposed to take the girl to Radiology half an hour ago. Where the hell is Thirteen?" Taub has been complaining pretty regularly ever since the clock struck 10:01.

"Here the hell I am. Sorry for the delay, but I sort of had to help a patient through her eighth damn seizure of the day. But really, I'll try harder next time," the female doctor replys angrily. She collapses into a chair and puts her disheveled hair into a ponytail.

"I'll bet fifty bucks it's a brain tumor. What else could it be that's giving her seizure after seizure?" announces Kutner proudly.

Foreman jumps on it: "It's always something else. I'll take that bet." They shake hands, with Foreman laughing inside at Kutner's naivety.

The two walk off to Marissa's room.

Meanwhile:

Cameron glances out of the corner of her eye a crippled shadow moving as quickly as he could towards the clinic. She knows that limp anywhere, and she begins to power walk at a speed that's easily twice as fast as his. He turns a corner and she follows.

"House, I—"

She stops dead in her tracks. She's met with the piercing blue eyes of both House and Cuddy who were obviously about to be engaged in a deep conversation.

"Why, hello Dr. Cameron! Come to finally admit that you want your old job back, or to help me come up with another cool pet name for Cuddy's boobs? Either way, I'm glad you're here!" His voice was as sarcastic as usual. Although, it wasn't totally a lie—Cuddy had pulled House over and he knew what she wanted to talk about. Even more, he knew that he didn't want to talk back.

"Neither option, thank you very much. I was just coming to ask about your new patient," she replied nervously.

"How do you know I have a new patient?" he asked suspiciously.

"Well, I don't," she admitted, "I just assumed because I was secretly coming here to profess my love to you and I thought Cuddy might be jealous, so I had to come up with an excuse." _Interesting how the secret truth can pass for a lie, _she thought.

"You've been buddying up with Foreman again, I guess. Did he tell you she's my hooker?"

Cameron and Cuddy both raised their eyebrows. Cuddy responded with a simple, "I don't think Dr. Cameron needs to know anything more about this. Neither do I, but you're coming into my office now to discuss your latest clinic—problems."

They hurried away, and Cameron, totally unfulfilled, made her way back to the ER. _House's hooker, _she thought. _She must have some interesting stories. Maybe I should go talk to her!_ She couldn't help but laugh to herself.


	4. Let Her Eat Cake

Kutner and Foreman are power walking through a crowded corridor. Kutner is looking down, hands in his pockets, while Foreman has a cheesy grin plastered on his face.

"Thanks, Larry, I was in the market for a new shirt. House—"

House is reclining in his office, watching the same General Hospital episode he did yesterday. Or maybe he didn't. He isn't quite sure. The plot lines are all the same.

"Let me guess. MRI was clean. Kutner is short some money, and that's why Foreman looks so creepily pleased. Yeah, you might want to work on that before we have to evacuate the pediatric ward." Foreman quickly frowned. "And now you guys want me to tell you how come a girl with neurological symptoms has nothing wrong with her nervous system."

"How did you know all that?" asks Kutner.

"Duh. I'm God. How do you always forget these things, Mr. Naïve? Just in case you two couldn't come up with anything useful, I've already sent Taub and Thirteen to the patient's 'place of residence'."

"This is no way to live," murmurs Taub.

"If she had a better choice, she probably wouldn't be a prostitute," replies Thirteen matter-of-factly.

In the daylight, the deserted nightclub looks like nothing but a breeding site for mold, stains, and blood spatters. There could be millions of toxins in the place, but naturally, there are none to be found.

"A lot cleaner than it looks," he notes.

"HEY!"

The doctors spin around quickly, hearts pounding in their chests.

"We don't open till eleven. You're gonna have to…are you guys cops?"

He moves towards Taub, making motions like he's about to either give him a big hug, or snap his windpipe in half. Considering they've never met and this guy had to be 300 pounds, Taub felt it was safe to assume the latter.

"Hey man, we don't want any trouble—"

"We're doctors," explains Thirteen coolly. The man eyes her and studies her face. Having decided she wasn't lying, he roars, "So what do you want?"

"One of your girls is very sick. We need to know if anything in her environment is causing it, which includes her—home. She does live here, right?" Thirteen feels a little awkward.

He replies, "Yeah, they all do. I don't know their names though. She young?"

"Nineteen," says Taub, who just reencountered his lungs.

"She'd be in there," he points. "I hear anything funny going on, you two ain't gonna like it."

He walks away from them, and they open the door.

At least twenty girls are splayed out in a space the size of the conference room. Most of them are sleeping, but some are smoking and one is crying in a corner. It probably wasn't an uncommon sight.

"Excuse me, ladies," states Thirteen forcefully.

Some of the women scream, others try to hide, some stay still.

"Relax," reassures Taub. "We're not here to hurt you. We just want to know if anybody knows where Marissa sleeps."

"Marissa?" The familiar blonde girl stands. "She's next to me. Are you her doctors? Is she okay?" The girl is obviously nervous out of her wits.

Taub remains quiet. Thirteen, trying to be honest but gentle, replies, "We really don't know."

They walk over and examine the bed that the two girls share. Swabs and vials are passed over the sheets, the walls, the floors, and everything in sight.

Suddenly, Thirteen picks up a knapsack from under the bed. "This hers?" she asks. The blonde girl nods.

Thirteen rips it open and goes through it. There's one dollar, some lip gloss, a tissue, and—an empty bottle of Prozac.

Back in House's office. "Looks like our hooker is depressed," reports Taub.

"What, having random guys you've never met and most of who are complete losers come and ram you every night because you've got nothing better to do wouldn't be enough to depress you?" House replies sardonically.

Thirteen seizes the opportunity. "Does that make you a complete loser?"

House eyes her piercingly. "No, see, I never actually got to put the lime in the coconut. She did that whole getting sick thing first. Sick, however, doesn't mean incapable of being yet another useless human being and lying."

Foreman changes the subject, as per usual. "Anti-depressants that are taken in excess can have multiple side effects, including seizures."

House starts to walk out with a hearty, "Then get her off the happy pills." After a pause, he sticks his head back in. "Actually, get Cameron to do it."

"House, she's not your employee anymore. You can't just pull her out of the ER to talk to your patients," chides Foreman.

"But this is such a personal, moral matter. It's fixing a broken person. To Cameron, it's like a big piece of chocolate cake. I would've told Thirteen to do it, but the whole drug addiction thing has made her much less warm and fuzzy lately,' House reasons. "Besides, she's bored there anyway."

Cameron steps onto the elevator, with no idea why one of House's new pets insisted that SHE deliver the news to a teenager that she's not allowed to be happy anymore. Why does he always have to screw with her like this? And more importantly, why does she always feel so compelled to go along with it?

"Hi Marissa, I'm Dr. Cameron," she says in her special ER comforting voice.

"Another doctor? Geeze, how many does it take to screw in a light bulb?" she sighs.

"Probably not as many as it took to diagnose you," the doctor responds. "Marissa, did you provide the team with a completely honest medical history?"

"If you didn't know the answer, you wouldn't be here to tell me off."

At that moment, Marissa reaches her hand over into the drawer and pulls out a fresh bottle of pills, marked with a smiley face, and throws it to a waiting Cameron.

"I figured it didn't matter. Am I going to magically get better now?"

"Well, that's our hope, as long as you don't go back to this stuff. We're going to have to explore alternative therapy for you, " explains Cameron as she gives her another Gatorade cup to rehydrate her. "When's the last time you seized?"

"Five minutes before you came in."

_Quick recovery time_, she thinks to herself. _Seems pretty healthy for someone so sick_.

"You're not going to start tricking us into thinking we're right again by presenting with another strange symptom are you?" she jokes.

For the first time since she's been admitted, Marissa smiles weakly. "Of course not. I'm already feeling better, I think."

Cameron smiles back. "You're going to be all right. Next time though, you can do way better than House."

They laugh, and Cameron gets up to leave, when she notices the bag next to the bed is totally empty.

"You've had at least a half a gallon of Gatorade since you've been here, and you haven't urinated at all," says Cameron nervously.

Marissa looks up. "Is that bad?"

"Yeah, it's bad."


	5. Say Cheese

"Stupid patients. They can never make it easy, can they?" House is writing on the whiteboard. It now reads: CONSTANT SEIZURES, VOMITING, KIDNEY FAILURE.

"I think it's because they like the food here so much," suggests Thirteen. "Practically gourmet."

"It could be infection," proposes Foreman. "If it's blood borne, it could easily travel from her brain to her kidneys."

"Doubt it. She's got no fever and she's already been on broad spectrum antibiotics to make sure," notes Taub.

"Possibly leukemia. If it spread to her brain it would explain the seizures and vomiting," says Kutner.

House gives him the "are you really that stupid" look. "Did you miss the whole thing about kidney failure? Leukemia wouldn't do that."

"I know you don't believe in coincidences, but it's possible that if leukemia was weakening her systems, anything, like the contrast from the MRI, could be shocking the kidneys," he tries to explain.

"I suppose it's possible, but it's just not good enough," House complains. "Did anyone get a decent family history from her?"

"She doesn't know anything, and her parents are dead," Thirteen says.

"The girl's got a track record for lying. I think I'll do my own research and make sure there's really no Mommy and Daddy that could be useful for this mystery. Start her on dialysis until I get back." House shoos them away and starts typing on his computer.

Meanwhile…

"Dr. Cuddy, I'm going on my lunch break," yells Cameron across the room. Cuddy looks up from the file of some snot-nosed kid and gives her a nod.

However, instead of walking out the doors, Cameron heads into the elevator and goes up into the patient rooms.

"Hey Marissa, how are you feeling?"

"As good as I look," she replies. It's pretty true; the poor girl's hair is all over the place and her skin looks nine shades paler than the last time she spoke to the doctor.

"Yeah, I'm not so hot myself. But I'm certainly not going to bother you with that—"

Marissa chuckles softly. "No, please do. I haven't heard anything interesting all day except my blood sugar levels and how I'll be dead by tomorrow if I don't knock it off."

Cameron, all too eager to spill, starts, "Okay. So I'm sort of together with this cute Australian doctor—you haven't met him, his name is Dr. Chase—but I just found out that this other doctor, who I've always kind of liked, was kissing this other doctor."

Marissa raises an eyebrow. "Are you telling me about your problems, or summarizing today's episode of ER?"

Cameron shrugs. "Possibly both."

"Well, which one do you feel more comfortable with?"

"I guess the one I'm with now. But that's the problem. It's too comfortable. Friends comfortable. The other one gives me that strange feeling that half kills me and half makes me float in midair."

Just then, House enters with a decisive stride that is the all too recognizable symbol to Cameron that he's got something important to say. "Cameron, shut up about that cheese you brought for lunch today and scram. I need to have a word with this—young woman."

Cameron gets up to leave, but Marissa grabs her arm. "Whatever you need to say, I'm sure Dr. Cameron has heard it before."

House glares at her and then at Cameron, who returns it just as strongly. "Fine then, suit yourself. " He pulls up a chair right in her face, across from Cameron, who is getting a little nervous.

"I took the liberty of validating your claim about your parents being dead, given your past performances," he starts.

"I did NOT lie about the death of my parents," she asserts.

"Let me finish," he says sternly. She turns a shade whiter. "Surely enough, it was true. I found a lovely internet article concerning a really gross car accident. It says that they were survived by a daughter, age 14. I suppose that would be you, correct?"

"Of course."

"While I was perusing this fascinating article, I happened upon a date at the top. Turns out that this accident occurred on September 15, 2006."

"House, stop! You're only making her upset with this talk about her parents, you're going to provoke another seizure," yells Cameron, noticing Marissa's sudden pallor.

"That's not what's making her upset. It's because she knows that I know that she's been lying about her age. She's only sixteen," states House calmly. Cameron looks desperately at Marissa, who's about to burst into tears.

"You make it out of here alive, you're leaving in the hands of Child Protective Services," declares House.

Cameron holds Marissa in her arms for a few minutes, before she has to leave. Lunch break's over.

"Strike two against the hooker," House says as he stands before his team.

Foreman puts his hands on his head. "Okay, so she lied again. Is it diagnostically relevant?"

"Probably not," replies House. He notices Thirteen, who has been staring at him with disbelief for the last two minutes. "What on earth could possibly be so interesting about my gorgeous face that you've felt the need to gawk at it since I've been here?"

"Don't you feel disgusting at all? You almost slept with a sixteen year old girl!" Thirteen practically jumps out of her shoes.

"I thought about it, but my give a damn's in the shop. Besides, it would've been way better than sleeping with a sixteen year old boy," he responded to a huge groan from Thirteen.

One by one, every single doctor's beeper starts to sing its deathly song.

"My guess, dear ducklings, is that we all have the same word on our nifty little machines," House muses. They look at him, obviously concerned.

"Coma."


	6. Traitor

_Hi guys. Two announcements to make. First off, I'm very sorry for the delay in a new chapter. The play I'm helping to produce goes on this week, and I've been busy as all hell. Second, I've gotten word that some of the transitions are a little confusing, so I'm going to make use of the little divider. Hope you enjoy! :)_

* * *

Foreman, Taub, Kutner, and Thirteen are standing around Marissa's bed.

"It's still so weird, doing this—I half expect her to sit up any second and make a smart remark or ask for her Prozac back again," murmurs Kutner as he hooks up the IV.

Thirteen looks at him with a sad nod of agreement, and then starts: "Whatever's got her, it's killing her fast. If we want her to come out of this with full brain function, we need to come up with a new idea now."

"A cerebral hemorrhage?" suggests Foreman, hands on his head.

"We've already checked the brain scan, it's clean," replies Taub. "How about encephalitis?"

"She's got no fever and she never did, infection is off the table. You people really don't listen," snaps Thirteen. "Where the hell is House?"

Foreman sighs, and they all turn to look at him. "What?" he asks.

"You know where he is," responds Taub. "You're his little prodigy, after all."

"Fine. He said he was going to have a 'little chat' with Wilson and Cuddy about the patient," Foreman admits.

"Does he think it could be cancer?" wonders Kutner.

"No, you idiot," says Thirteen. "They're probably discussing that kiss and seeing if Wilson wants to get in on it," she giggles.

Foreman, Taub, and Thirteen exit. Kutner checks Marissa's IV and vitals again, and can't help but think, _Why am I always the last to know these things?_

_

* * *

_

"Why can't you just let this go?" says House with more than a hint of annoyance. He's sitting next to Wilson on the couch of the doctor's lounge with Cuddy on a chair across from him, a substantial distance away.

"Why do you have to?" she replies. "God forbid you ever allow yourself to be human for one moment without trying to convince the world it never happened."

Wilson runs his hand through his hair, used to being the therapist, the mediator, and the go-to guy between these two.

"Funny things can happen when you've just had a handful of yummy white tablets," he suggests.

Cuddy stands up with a smirk. Her arms fold, just the way they always do when she's just found an oh-so-sweet flaw in the great Dr. House's argument.

"No, House. You don't change when you're on Vicodin. You change when you aren't. Now, if you're off the painkillers and you have nothing to entertain you, you're both in agony and even more of a manipulative bastard than usual. But, if you do have a distraction, say, a friend in anguish, you show no signs of pain, and tend to be more like a decent person. Like when you were on the ketamine. So you were off the pills, and that means that you had something more important on your mind. You did this intentionally, House. It's time to own up to it." Cuddy ends the sentence with a hint of tiredness, just wanting this big baby of a man to grow up and learn to love and sick of trying to do it herself. With a huge groan, she leaves.

Wilson slides off the couch and sits in Cuddy's vacant seat. "She's right, isn't she?"

House lies down on the sofa and stares at the ceiling for about thirty seconds.

"No," he states flatly.

Wilson heaves a sigh. "Everybody lies," he says, "you included. And you're doing it right now."

He takes Cuddy's path out the door, leaving House with nothing but his thoughts and a bottle of Vicodin that he now just feels like smashing. _Traitor._

He sits in silence for a few moments. His pager goes off, reading—out of coma??

* * *

House slides open the door and closes it behind him to find Cameron and a very alert, healthy looking Marissa laughing and sharing lunch. They turn to look at him.

"Hello Melissa. I'm Dr. House. Remember me?"

Cameron, annoyed, reminds him, "It's _Marissa_."

House rolls his eyes. "Whatever. How have you been feeling since you woke up?"

Marissa shrugs. "Tired, but other than that, pretty normal. I haven't felt this good since I got here. Do you think I'm ready to go home?"

House sneers. "What home? You went into a coma, not usually any retrograde amnesia involved with that. You're still leaving with CPS." He sits down next to a vexed Cameron. In a gentler voice, he continues, "But yes, if everything continues as so, you'll be discharged in the morning. So Cameron, don't screw it up by making her puke with your sappy stories." She sticks her tongue out at him and leaves.

"Why is she always here?" House asks, watching Cameron walk to the elevator.

"Believe it or not, with two dead parents and all your friends being sold off to strangers every night, I don't get many visitors," says Marissa coldly. "Allison has been very nice to me, and she's really a lot of fun."

"Yeah, they do say blondes have more fun, maybe the hair dye—wait, Allison?" Perplexity.

"That is her name, isn't it? She said I could call her by her first name," she replies.

"Sometimes I forget."

"So, are you ever going to stop being such a pussy and ask her out again?" Marissa asks with one eyebrow raised.

House turns. "Why the hell would she tell you about that one stupid time?"

"She didn't. I could tell. The way she looks up at you and the little twinkle you get after talking to her—or insulting her, that wasn't very nice by the way—it's kind of obvious that you two have some tension. All she said was that there was some guy who gave her a dangerous, edgy sort of vibe that she always loved. You fit the bill. I may be sixteen, but I'm not dumb," Marissa explains.

The doctor is quiet for a moment, but he quickly returns. "You're a prostitute. What do you know about love?" Before she could respond, he turned and left her with an incredibly offended expression.

* * *

About an hour later, a nurse goes to check on Marissa. She's dozing off in front of a low volume game show. The nurse smiles to herself, and bends down to tie her shoe.

When she stands, the monitors are beeping like crazy.

"Call Dr. House's team, she's seizing again!"


	7. Three Addictions

_This is a shorter chapter than the previous few. Still very busy! But I hope it's at least a little bit satisfying :]_

* * *

While a nurse is entrusted to look over Marissa, the ducklings meet with House in the conference room.

"What the hell changed," wonders House. "Seems to me that falling into a coma is not a treatment for any illness I've ever heard of."

"Maybe, if we left her in a coma for a few days, you know, induced it to remain, she'd wake up refreshed," says Taub.

House gives him a priceless "WTF?" look. "Taub, you're the one I'm supposed to trust not to be an idiot. You can't possibly think that all this is caused by a simple case of sleep deprivation."

Foreman cuts in. "He's out of ideas, like the rest of us. Isn't it about time you have one of your epiphanies?"

"Oh yeah," House replies. "Let me try—"he stares off into space for a few seconds, "no—"he raises his eyebrows, "not yet—"he tosses his ball up. "Nothing."

Thirteen rolls her eyes.

"Careful, Thirteen," House says nonchalantly. "You keep doing that all the time and they might get stuck that way." He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "I'm going to get a consult from Cuddy."

Foreman is not convinced. "Since when do you give a crap about what Cuddy thinks? You're the one who always says she's a second-rate doctor."

House looks at him, scanning his eyes to see any trace of suspicion. The last thing he needs is for his mini-me to start asking questions or know anything he doesn't have to. When he's properly satisfied that if he does suspect anything, it isn't dangerous, he replies, "Since I became desperate to save a life." He leaves.

Kutner grins. "Maybe he finally realized that Dr. Cuddy isn't such a bad doctor after all! I always thought she had good instincts—"

The other three stare blankly at him. His smile fades. _Damnit_, he thinks.

The two males sigh. Thirteen excuses herself to the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, she smiles a little bit, the kind of smile that she could only produce when she's sure nobody can see it.

* * *

House stumbles into the office of the Dean of Medicine. _It's odd_, he thinks to himself, _when I'm in here for any other reason than to ask for a dangerous test or berate her. I don't know if I can do anything else._

Cuddy looks up from her monitor to see a very tired looking House. She takes her hands off the keyboard. "Hi."

"Hi."

A few moments of awkward silence.

"Well I'm not wearing a low-cut top right now, I don't think there's anything on my face, and I hope to God you're not having an absent seizure. In that case, do you plan to do anything besides stand there and stare at me?" Cuddy sounds weary.

He limps over and takes a seat in front of her desk. He waits a moment, and then says, "There, happy?"

Cuddy groans. "No, it's not. Say something, anything, preferably one of the things I've been pleading with you to say. Do it within the next thirty seconds, or leave. Believe it or not, I do have a job."

There is a clock on her wall. An analog clock. He takes a careful note of the tick, tick, tick. It sounds so familiar. He could swear that it matches his heartbeat perfectly, and it's ticking faster and faster.

25 seconds. He can't formulate what to say, much less how to say it, and least of all if he wants to.

20 seconds. Was that a palpitation? House doesn't get nervous, right? Especially not in front of her, she isn't anything scary, and he isn't going to give her any ideas that she is.

15 seconds. He wants to say something. He isn't the type to do things halfway, whether it is with patients or not.

10 seconds. What does he want from her? He doesn't really know, and that's the problem.

5 seconds. Fuck, House, do something!

"So what is it, my charm, my rugged good-looks, or how I was in bed that night that makes you want me so much?"

_Dammit, dammit, dammit!_

Cuddy looks like she's going to cry. She won't, of course. She can't cry for him anymore. It's just enough to rupture his insides, and make what's left of his soul slide out and slap him in the face.

"I'm so tired of feeding your ego, House."

Then, she doesn't say a word. She just points to the door. He takes the hint. Her face is in her hands; his hands are on his head. He opens the door, steps outside and closes it, so that he can lean on it and ignore the pain.

And it's not in his leg.

He wants to ignore it, completely disregard the blatant fact that this woman meant something to him. He'd much, much rather be a salty, heartless bastard and have life as he knows it go on.

He needs his drug, his addiction, his craving. Reaching his hand in his pocket for his Vicodin, he realizes something.

This time, he's going to satisfy his other addiction.

_Feeding…_

'Well Foreman, you want it, you got it."


	8. Two Diagnoses

_Hello my faithful readers! This story is nearing its end, but it's not quite there yet! Again, sorry for the late updating, this week I was auditioning for a musical! God I'm so nervous._ _But, anyway, this chapter has one complete diagnosis, and one incomplete diagnosis. Read on to find out :]_

* * *

Thirteen and Kutner are sitting on opposite sides of Marissa's bed. Thirteen is checking her charts; Kutner is adjusting her anti-seizure meds. House bursts in.

"Well, ducklings, what is the difference between a conscious girl and a comatose girl?" he leans on the end of the bed.

"Oh, I don't know," says Thirteen, "eyes aren't open, less brain function, unresponsiveness; any of these ring a bell?"

"What else?" House says slowly, staring her into her eyes. "What can't a comatose patient do on her own?"

She looks down. "She can't go to the bathroom, she can't speak, she can't eat—"

"Yes. She can't eat," House says, walking around to Kutner. He grabs the IV bag out of his hands. "Instead, we pump her up with calories from one of these things. Inside, we place milk and nutritional supplements. Milk is made up of butterfat molecules and lactose, among other enzymes and…stuff. Lactose."

He walks over to the trash can, where the remains of Marissa and Cameron's lunches sit. He reaches his hands in, prompting a disgusted look from Kutner, and pulls out a crunched up juice carton.

"This, on the other hand, is the cheap garbage that this lousy hospital provides with every patient meal. Not 100% juice for 100% kids—or even adults, for that matter. This contains a different kind of sugar. Fructose." House examines the nutrition facts and throws it away once more.

"Okay?" Thirteen gesticulates. "So what? Now if she becomes overweight we know why. What does that have to do with anything? A little bit of unhealthy sugar never hurts anyone."

"Well, only if you believe those stupid 'public service announcements' from the Corn Farmers of America," House replies. "Good old high fructose corn syrup can, however, be extremely dangerous if you have a condition known as Hereditary Fructose Intolerance."

The two fellows look at each other in thought.

"Normally, the body isn't picky. Sugar is sugar and is digested as such. Usually, the worst thing that can come from it is a little sugar high, a little obesity, and a little diabetes. But in patients with HFI, the reaction is much worse. The enzyme fructose-1-phosphate aldolase that normally help process the sugar only works at maximum 10% of what it should. At first ingestion, i.e. the first lollipop that damned pimp gave her; the symptom is simple enough to ignore—a little vomiting. A few more and you start getting tremors. A little more, you seize and go to the hospital. And if your ridiculous hospital keeps on feeding it to you, you fall into a coma, which could lead to death if you get there one too many times. But, once they stop shoving poison down your throat, the symptoms clear."

House stares at Marissa's face, softened by the power of sedation. "Technically, every nurse that's ever brought her food is liable for assault and attempted murder."

Kutner jumps in. "But if it's hereditary, how come there's no family history?"

House sighs. He so badly wants to jump down this guy's throat for being so slow. _Good thing he's likeable_, he thinks to himself.

"First of all, it's recessive. The parents could both have been carriers and never shown a single symptom." House sits down on the windowsill and stares out into the dark night sky.

"However, if you stop to think for a moment, 14 year old girls usually wouldn't pick prostitution over a foster home. Something screwed her up. My guess is that Mommy and Daddy weren't very good to her—probably locked her in her room all day. In all probability, they fed her scraps—not candy. Otherwise, she would've been hospitalized and diagnosed with HFI years ago."

House gets up and begins to walk out. "Wake her up, get her some dinner. Check the labels. Then biopsy her liver and check for fructose-1-phosphate aldolase. When she's done, call Cameron in so they can have one of their famous heart-to-hearts."

* * *

Wilson walks into House's office with a flabbergasted look on his face.

"Waiting for a flea to fly in there Jimmy, or do you actually have something you would like to say to me?"

Boy wonder oncologist groans. "You screwed it up with Cuddy again, didn't you?"

House leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. He starts calculating in his head just how much force he would have to apply to his cane to promote the exactly velocity necessary to knock this pesky doctor over in his seat.

"Screwing up is a relative term. It's possible I did exactly what I intended to," replies House.

_Bullshit_, thinks Wilson. "Bullshit," says Wilson.

"James!" House exclaims, feigning shock. "I do not condone such vulgar language in my place of study."

"Why, House, why can't you just act like a human being? You're smart, you're around them enough, and can't you pick something up? Just a few words and you'd have her at your beck and call," rambles Wilson.

"But pushing Mommy's buttons is so very fun. This way, I get to test her," explains House sarcastically.

Wilson, missing the humor, replies, "You don't need to push them anymore. You've tested her so much that the College Board's got nothing on you. Something is keeping you back, House. What is it?"

Two big, deep blue eyes staring into two wise, knowing brown eyes. The blue eyes avert themselves to avoid giving anything away. Four eyelids meet to shut the window to the world out of sight, so that for just one moment, everything can go away and the brain can have its space to think.

No such luck.

"I don't know, Wilson."

Wilson sighs again. He walks out slowly, without turning around to face the bemused doctor.

_I haven't got a diagnosis yet_, he muses. _But I might have a theory._

_

* * *

_Foreman walks in a few minutes later. "Liver biopsy was positive for the enzyme deficiency. The great Dr. House does it again," he reports.

"Big shocker, isn't it? Every time, I think he's been stumped, but then WHAM-O! Gets it at the last second," House responds. Foreman rolls his eyes and chuckles.

"I've paged Cameron. She should be in the patient's room momentarily. Oh yeah, and she's fine, by the way," says Foreman.

"Well, I'm peachy keen that Cameron's doing well, but—"

"House, I meant Marissa. The patient?" Foreman is a bit confused.

House stares into space for a moment with one foot out the door. "Yeah, of course." He makes his way towards the elevator.

"Here goes nothing."


	9. Of Cookies and Cotton Candy

_Please enjoy the last (and longest, surprisingly) chapter of this fan fiction. I hope you've all liked it and the direction it went in. Reviews are most appreciated, and suggestions for my next story would be welcomed as well!_

* * *

"Now, Marissa, I want you to check in with me when you leave here," says Cameron, holding onto her hand.

It is late morning, and the light is shining through the hospital room window, possibly the brightest it's shone in days. The rays sparkle against the healthy rosiness of Marissa's face and frame her freshly brushed hair with tints of golden that Cameron had never noticed before. How much prettier one looks when they're not inches from being worm food, huh? Cameron had brought in some of her old clothes for Marissa to wear—something that actually covered her navel and rode down past the middle of her thighs. She sits cross legged across from the doctor.

"Yeah, I will. It's funny, Allison—I've gone years without trusting anybody. I didn't know who could be believed to tell the truth, to want the best for me. Certainly my parents didn't. So—I didn't really believe in anyone. But in just a few short days, you've proven yourself to me. How did that happen?" Marissa seems a little far off, and then looks into Cameron's smiling eyes.

"Maybe it's an impending death thing. Maybe it's a neediness thing. But maybe, you've just always wanted someone who you could have faith in. I do want to be that person for you, Marissa—promise me you'll allow me to do that," Cameron says, and squeezes her hand. Marissa replies with a small smile and a nod.

"Beautiful moment, encore!" House butts in, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "Now, however, there is business to take care of involving your imminent capture and relocation—"

"Dr. House." He stops mid-sentence, not expecting the fortitudinous gaze he received from the girl. "I'm not going to fight CPS anymore. I finally realized something. If I go on doing what I've been doing, I'll be letting my parents see that they won, that they broke me when I was a child. I couldn't give them that chance," Marissa says bravely.

House examines the girl's expression, knowing full well that this girl, perfectly vulnerable to the idiocy of the rest of the human race, had finally overcome it. He didn't say anything to that extent, just this:

"Plus the fact that it's illegal."

Marissa sighs lightly. "I'm ready."

"Good," he replies, "Because they're here."

At that moment, a friendly looking middle-aged woman walks in with a clipboard and Marissa's knapsack that Thirteen gave her. "Hi Marissa, I'm Nadine. I'm here to take you to our facility. We can leave shortly, if you can be ready?"

Marissa stands up. "Yeah, I don't exactly have much I need to pack up." She laughs, a real laugh, not a sardonic chuckle that she's been accustomed to. Cameron smiles at this. Marissa turns to face her.

"You've been so great, I hope you know that," Marissa tells her.

They hug warmly. Over Marissa's shoulder, Cameron looks to House and states calmly, "Who says you can care too much?"

House rolls his eyes. "Well, before you go, I can get you a refill on that Prozac, seeing as it isn't killing you after all."

Marissa thinks for a moment, and then turns to him and says, "No thanks. I think I'd like to try and manage without them. Maybe it'll be a little easier now. I mean, I don't want to be hooked on some pills for my whole life—"

House can't help but chuckle a little at this unintentional demonstration of his own life. He half-smiles at her, and says "See you later kid, practice safe sluttiness."

He walks out, ignoring any response his comment may have elicited. Wilson's probably in the cafeteria right now and House has no lunch money.

* * *

Taub is standing at the conference room whiteboard with a marker in his hand. The doctors are going to do what they do best when there are no patients or clinic duty—goof off. And what better way to goof off than with a little survey?

"Okay, the polls are open. Who is House in love with? My vote goes to Cuddy, most definitely." He writes Cuddy's name and puts a tally next to it. "Foreman?"

"I'd say Cameron, really—I've worked with them for a long time and I don't think anyone could miss it," he responded.

Taub scribbles "Cameron" and tallies, and then points his finger at Kutner, raising his eyebrows.

"Uh, don't think I'm weird guys, but I think he's got a thing for Wilson."

Taub and Foreman stare at him, while Thirteen tries to stifle her giggle and save face. Kutner leans back and groans. _Not again!_

"Alright, Thirteen?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? He's in love with himself," she says, filing her nails.

"Damnit. Four-way tie," Taub laments, as a stressed looking Cuddy walks in.

"House here?" she asks. She receives mixed negative replies, and she looks down. _Figures. _"Well, if he does come in before the end of the day, tell him I'd like to talk with him." Foreman nods, and she power walks out of there.

"I haven't even seen him all day. What could he have possibly done?" says Thirteen.

The doctors shrug, and decide to get started on a game of Monopoly.

Thirteen and Kutner both want to be the horse. Their hands touch as they both try to grab it. They look up at each other for a brief moment, and Thirteen pulls away, facing the other way. He then touches her shoulder, and places it in her hand. She looks at him again, and then nods in gratitude.

As she turns to sit, she thinks to herself. _Why can't I smile for him?_

* * *

It's seven in the evening, and Cameron has just finished her shift in the ER. After removing a rather large onion from a body who was evidently trying to eat it the wrong way, she's up for anything. She boards the elevator and takes it to the surgery and diagnostics floor. Chase promised her a cookie at lunch today, but he was paged before he could get it. She wants that damn cookie.

She approaches the nurse's station. "Excuse me Ashley, could you tell me where Dr. Chase is at the moment?"

Ashley is a young nurse, probably not more than about twenty-four. "I'm sorry Dr. Cameron, Dr. Chase has just been called in for an emergency neurosurgery. He probably won't be available for a few hours." Seeing the downcast look on Cameron's face, she adds, "Oh! And he told me to give you this."

She pulls out something wrapped in a napkin, which Cameron takes. When she peels it aside, she sees her cookie, teeming with M&Ms, just like she loves. She smiles. "Thanks Ashley," she says, and begins to walk down the hall.

It isn't long before her steps are halted by a sudden cane to the abdomen.

"Ooh, cookie! Can I has a bite?" says the scruffy doctor.

"It has M&Ms. I know for a fact that you hate them, because I offered you some of mine two weeks ago and you made a face. What do you really want?" Cameron grins at him.

"Where's Wombat?" he asks.

"Isn't that a children's game?" she ponders. "He's in surgery, why?"

"No reason," he shrugs.

She looks at him for a moment. "Well if that's all, I think I'll get going—"she struts off.

"Cameron?"

She turns around.

"I heard there was going to be another monster truck rally tonight, and I have season passes. I'm a VIP, you know."

"Yeah?"

"There's going to be lots of cotton candy."

"That sounds nice."

"…Would you like to go?"

She walks back to him and studies his face, to make sure he isn't bullshitting her. He's as serious as he could possibly be. She smiles, and says very softly, "Like a date?"

"Yeah. Except for the 'like' part."

"I'd love to."


End file.
